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Drinking in the Sunset
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Dusk over cookie cutter Sunset District rooftops is random swirls of strawberry. It's beautiful and I drink it in. I close my eyes. Then low-hanging power lines buzz like flies and I snap out of my state of revery. A dog barks behind a fence; he sounds good and pissed at being kept back there. I know how he feels.
From the corner of Rivera Street and 26th Avenue I can now see the Pacific Ocean and a tanker cutting a slow path toward the Golden Gate Bridge, probably hauling sugar that my wife’s cousin's husband will unload in Oakland. Three blocks later a fog drops hard on the world. The smells of Taraval: Thai noodles and Mexican burritos and Ken and Amy’s pizza.
Several hours later I’m half in the bag already but it’s warm inside the Dragon Lounge. It used to be Fahey’s. It’s always been a cop bar. There’s only one other customer right now and it’s Kid Sis. She buys me a Stella and a shot of Jamieson. I stir the whiskey with my middle finger. There’s something about swirling brown booze.
I try to get the gal serving drinks to join us for a cocktail but she begs off because it’s so late—nearly last call—and she has to slow-cook a corn beef for her godson’s baptism in the morning. I laugh at her silly excuse. She laughs at me and swipes at the counter with a wet dish rag. She is wearing silver earrings that dangle.
There’s a kitchen in the back, and Fahey used to serve all-you-can-eat pasta when the Forty Niners were playing. I don’t think they cook anything back there anymore.
Kid Sis raises her glass, and I follow suit and we put them away. Then the bartendar tells us it’s last call so I order another round and try again to convince her to have a little drink. I’m persistent and finally she pours herself a shot of Bushmill probably just to shut me up. We touch glasses and say “cheers” and put them where they belong too and she makes a funny face like she just sucked on a lemon and shakes her head and my sister laughs.
Then the bouncer comes around to tell us to go home. I walk Kid Sis to her poorly made American car. She’s parked across from the public tennis courts. She gets in and the engine starts on the third try; a backfire sounds like gun play. There’s a homeless guy begging for change and I give him a little something. I see that guy everywhere but he doesn’t recognize me.
I watch Kid Sis follow Taraval Street alongside the penny-color Muni tracks. Her driver side brake light isn’t working. I’ll have to call her about that tomorrow if I remember. There are many things I need to do tomorrow if only I will remember.
